The light is a gold spoon stirring the water-mirrors of day. Flickering particles drift, pass one another like planets. You move toward shadow, now fade, now reappear, catching light, remembering. . . Closing my eyes, I see my grandmother's house. The Sunday paper thuds into the porch swing. Queen's wreath in bloom unravels to the sky. The coarse-leaved figs by the rock wall are soft. A wash of water shines the red clay steps, dripping zinnia beds, climbing yellow roses. I'm sitting barefoot on the white wooden steps snapping string beans into a bowl. Glass jars in the garage, rhinestones, buttons, boxes of tinsel gleam in the cool darkness. The elm rustles, mysterious by night. This morning I watch you pack for California, walking somewhere between gold dust and my August dreams.